The Bare King
by journalxxx
Summary: Enough is enough.


"What the hell was that about?" Wilson barked, needlessly distracting Maxwell from the fundamental task of making sure there were no more hounds ready to rush in from the mist. It was still day, but the horrendous weather made visibility exceptionally poor. The field where they had retreated for the fight, a wide clearing conveniently placed between their respective camps, was littered with the corpses of at least a dozen beasts, getting drenched and spoiling quickly under the heavy rain.

"What?"

"What do you mean, 'what'? This!" The tiny man pointed at the evident, gaping hole in his log suit. "You deliberately dragged me right in the path of that hound! Without warning! While I wasn't looking! Because you were about to be attacked by it!"

"And?"

"Are you serious!?" Wilson looked genuinely shocked. "I almost died!"

"Oh, don't be dramatic. I knew your armor could probably take it."

"Your armor could certainly take it! It's way more durable than mine! You wouldn't have been seriously injured even if it had bitten you right in the stomach, while I could very well have been slaughtered! I don't even know how I managed to fend it off!"

"Do you have nothing better to do with your time than whining about this?" Maxwell barely graced the flaming scientist with a single glance. He was tired, soaked, cold and annoyed. "It's almost dusk. Let's just split the loot and be on our own ways."

"Were you actually trying to kill me?" Wilson went on, undeterred. God, how petty he could be, at times.

"Of course not, you idiot. I'd have just stabbed you in the back if I were. Not that I'd need to, you wouldn't be much of a threat in a fair fight either."

"You really think so, uh? Then why do you always come here when you hear the hounds? I don't remember inviting you."

"Look." Maxwell sighed, rubbing his temples. He really had no mental energy to spare for Wilson's tantrums right now. "It's been a long day. Grab your share of the meat and be happy you'll get to live another tiresome day. A pleasure fighting with you, as always."

"No." Wilson tightened his hand on his weapon and straightened his back, rising to the maximum height his pitiful stature allowed. His features assumed a vaguely threatening edge. "Here's what we'll do. I'll grab all the meat and the loot, and you'll go on your merry way, happy that I haven't given you exactly what you deserve for another day. And you won't come here again, the next time they'll attack, since clearly you're just as much of a threat to my safety as the hounds are. How does that sound?"

"...Excuse me?" Maxwell turned to face him fully.

"It's only fair. I placed the traps that I made with my materials. I keep the area tidy and devoid of anything flammable aside from the firepits, for the sole purpose of having a safe space for dangerous brawls. I also take the brunt of attacks meant for you now, apparently. Since I'm doing all the job, I'm getting all the spoils."

Maxwell was sincerely speechless for a moment. Well... Well, well, well. He looked serious. "...Are you actually going to do this? Threaten me? Over a bunch of rotting monster flesh, of all things?"

"It's not about the meat. And you know it."

Wilson's eyes were steely. They glared at each other as Maxwell's shadow duelists, after finishing off the dying hounds collapsed on the ground, dutifully flanked their creator, one at each side. The scientist didn't seem intimidated, if anything a tad angrier. Maxwell took in the underwhelming sight offered by his opponent. A tentacle spike, a damaged log armor, a football helmet. Maxwell himself had his powers, his dark sword, his shadow armor, his puppets... Even a three-year-old could do the mental math and notice who the odds blatantly favored.

"I'm trying to decide if this is actually the stupidest idea you've ever had, although the list of comparisons is quite rich." He commented. "I have better equipment, and backup. You are both outclassed and outnumbered. You do not want to pick a fight with me, Higgsbury. Not now, not ever."

"I don't remember a single time I haven't been outclassed and outnumbered against all the things you threw at me. And yet, I'm still here." The fool had the gall to flash a smirk, before settling on a pout that he must have somehow deemed threatening. "This is my last warning. Get lost."

"...No."

The duelists sprang forwards. Maxwell didn't. He didn't need to get his own hands dirty, his puppets would be enough to put the fleshy underling in his place. Instead, he summoned his shadow cigar and took a long drag as he idly watched Wilson hop back to avoid the first slashes from the pair of assailants. Maxwell exerted only a mild control on his shadow clones, letting them handle the basic moves and gestures of the fight. He only made sure that they always stood between Wilson and him, so that the smaller man couldn't get close enough to the puppet master to strike him directly. Soon, however, it became evident that that approach wouldn't quite cut it. Wilson indeed knew his way around a fight: he dodged, he sidestepped, he parried and he stroke, with genuinely admirable agility and effectiveness, despite the questionable practicality of that crude spiked stick of his. He managed to dispatch the first two puppets relatively quickly, but Maxwell didn't bat an eye. Immediately, he spread his hand, and the Codex obediently teleported from his pocket to his palm, already open on the correct page. Another couple of shadow duelists materialized, and attacked anew.

This time, he kept a closer eye on his pawns' movements, making sure that they didn't leave any openings in their stance, or got in each other's way, or missed the opportunity to vibrate a potentially fatal blow. Wilson started struggling, and he had to retreat further and further away from Maxwell to avoid the onslaught of precise attacks. The former King couldn't hold back a small smile when one of the duelists drew the first blood, grazing Wilson's cheek with its blade. Had the jab hit just a tad more to the left... Wilson must have realized how close that call had been, because he literally fled. He turned his back to the drones and bolted, the shadows quick on his heels.

"Oh come on, already?" Maxwell mocked, but just for a moment. The duelists ground to a halt as soon as they stepped into a patch of taller grass, and Wilson immediately turned back and disposed of them with few well-aimed hits. Damn the sneaky bastard.

"...Wasn't expecting you to forget about these." Wilson said, his breath just a bit short as he carefully trudged out of the grass, paying attention not to step onto any of the tooth traps. "A bit of a blunder, if you ask me."

"You sound awfully proud of yourself for outwitting a bunch of mindless tin soldiers." Maxwell created two more puppets and put away his book. He had enough nightmare fuel for one more pair, but he decided it would be better to settle this quickly. He was getting bored of standing under the rain doing nothing. The puppets stood still to his side as he dispelled his cigar and steadied his grasp on the hilt of his sword. "But if you want my head, you'll have to come here and get it."

The skittish scientist took his sweet time before starting to approach, with small, measured steps, as if he was expecting Maxwell to attack him in some unexpected way at any moment. Maxwell had no intention of doing so, or of moving from the very center of the clearing, where the terrain was clean, the soil was visible, and there was no chance of accidentally stepping on traps and whatnots. Only when Wilson was reasonably close, Maxwell sent his clones to face him.

He followed them too, sword in hand, but at a walking speed. There was no need for him to join the front line, he'd rather stand and pace right behind his peons, ready to strike at the first opportunity that may have presented. Judging by the worried, fleeting glances Wilson kept giving him between one hit and another, Maxwell's strategy had a useful psychological impact as well. Unfortunately, by watching Wilson so closely, his attention to the puppets was a tad lacking. His opponent managed to get a clean hit to a duelist's upper arm, the sharp spikes of his weapon slicing through the dark limb and severing it from the rest of the body. As the duelist's arm and weapon vanished into thin air, Wilson swiftly turned to parry the slash from the other puppet, and their weapons locked into a tight clash. The mutilated fighter, by its own instict, did the only thing it could think of doing to make itself useful: he threw himself at Wilson and blocked him in a bizarre one-armed clinch.

Maxwell, who was standing behind said puppet, saw his occasion. The split second during which Wilson's bat was busy keeping one duelist's blade away, and his mobility was temporarily hindered by the other. Without bothering to sidestep his pawn, he drove his sword right through the puppet's back, and he felt it penetrate Wilson's wooden armor.

Wilson yelped, but Maxwell could immediately tell it was a noise of surprise, not pain. As the puppet dissolved, he could see that his aim had been off, the thrust too rushed. The sword had sliced through the very edge of the log armor, barely grazing Wilson's side, if not missing it completely. A pity. Just a couple of inches to the right, there was the wide hole left by the hound's bite. A hit right there would seal Wilson's fate instantly. Maxwell disengaged his sword from the wood and moved to rectify his mistake, but suddenly Wilson, while still struggling with the remaining duelist, headbutted him. Had he been taller, he may have smashed Maxwell's nose. Being the ridiculous shrimp that he was, he barely managed to hit his chin and split his lower lip. It was still more pain than the former King was expecting Wilson to inflict to him, and it left him reeling for a couple of moments, a couple of moments that Wilson managed to exploit to overthrow the last of Maxwell's minions and dispel it into the wind. A moment later, he was already flinging himself at his real adversary.

The speed of Wilson's attack was impressive, and Maxwell barely managed to ready his sword in time to parry it. The momentum behind the hit was stronger than he imagined too, and had to take two steps back to keep his balance, but he managed to hold his ground. Their weapons clashed, and with no little satisfaction Maxwell heard his opponent's mace crack under his own blade, one made of pure shadow. He gritted his teeth and grabbed the hilt with both hands, pushing to shatter the mace completely, but Wilson suddenly twisted it to the side. Maxwell's blade was caught among the uneven spikes and sent hurling to the edge of the field, slipping from his grasp. Without wasting a moment, Wilson swung the bat and bashed it right in the middle of his chest. Maxwell felt his armor stop the spikes before they could pierce his skin, but the force of the impact left him breathless and sent him stumbling and toppling to the ground a couple of feet back.

His heart skipped a beat. Had Wilson followed through with another attack immediately, he'd have caught him defenseless. But he hesitated. Apparently shocked by his own violent burst, the scientist hesitated and simply waited for Maxwell to move, probably wondering if he was already dead.

A stupid, grave mistake. Wilson sprinted forward as soon as Maxwell's hand reached in his jacket to fetch his other weapon, but it was too late. Instantly, his lower body and the right side of his torso were encased in a solid block of ice, paralyzing him on the spot and blocking his weapon. He gaped in shock at himself, unable to process how the tables may have turned so quickly, while Maxwell calmly stood up and approached him.

"You had an ice staff!?" He looked actually offended. "Why didn't you use it to stop that hound?"

"Why would I waste the durability of such a precious and rare weapon when I have a perfectly serviceable meat shield ready at hand?" Maxwell smirked, tapping the other man's chin with said staff. A thin layer of white frost covered Wilson's beard around that spot. "Or are you actually so delusional to believe that your life is more valuable to me than that of any of my puppets?"

"...You're disgusting."

Maxwell slapped him with the back of his hand, hard enough to hurt his own knuckles. The cut on Wilson's cheek smeared his fingers with blood, and he cleaned them on the collar of the other's waistcoat. Now, what to do with the impudent runt? Should he just freeze him completely and leave him there? He had trapped the mime for... he didn't quite remember how long - for a much lesser offense, after all. It seemed too lenient a punishment. Maybe just give him frostbite, here and there, and let him enjoy the pain until the afflicted limbs fell off? Maxwell wouldn't stick around long enough around to witness the funniest part though. Maybe he should just-

"'A precious and rare weapon', uh? You have pretty low standards. I think I can top that."

Wilson turned his head away and moved his only free arm, and an unbelievably bright and scalding light suddenly burst out from nothingness. It blinded Maxwell completely, hurting his eyes to the point of tears even when he closed them, and he shouted and instictively covered them with his arm. Something hit his staff and it escaped his grip, but he couldn't try to recover it unless he put some distance between him and the mysterious source of glow. He stepped back and tripped, landing on the ground. Eventually, he managed to peek from between his fingers, just in time to see Wilson freeing himself from the rapidly melting ice. Between the two men, there was an ungodly shiny ball of fire, as big as a head, fluctuating in midair. In Wilson's hand, there was- it couldn't be. A Star Caller's staff? How on Earth had he put his hands on one? Had Wilson actually made it down to the ruins? And survived?

As Wilson bent down to scoop up Maxwell's ice staff too, the former King reached into his jacket and brushed the spine of the Codex. It was all he needed to summon two more duelists, employing his last reserves of fuel, and he unleashed them against the thief. He saw Wilson run, carrying a literal armful of weapons with him, and the puppets right on his tail, but tears and raindrops forced him to shut his eyes again. He crawled further from the dwarf star and rubbed at his face furiously. When he could see again, it was too late to prevent the puppets from walking right into another of Wilson's ambushes. The traps activated, the clones got blocked, and swiftly executed. He felt his blood boil in rage as he heard Wilson's loud phew and watched him pat a smoking patch on his sleeve, presumably singed by the star.

"They sure are dumb if they aren't given precise orders. Fool them once..." Wilson chimed, resting his arm against a tree to catch his breath. He actually giggled as he put away the Star Caller's staff and brandished the two remaining weapons. "I swear, there's no bigger mystery in this place than our clothes. How does all this stuff fit in our pockets, uh? And can you believe that the burnt fabric will heal more quickly than any of my wounds? What's up with that?"

Look at him. Just look at him, the blithering idiot, running his asinine mouth as if he had already won. Few meters of safe distance between them and the victory over yet another pair of brainless drones were enough to make him so unreasonably cocky. It made Maxwell's stomach churn.

"...Enough." He exhaled, and held onto that deep-seated, overpowering disgust. He had had enough of Wilson, enough of this ridiculous, ignorant, blundering fool. He had had enough of his vain pretense of moral superiority, of his childish humour, of his revolting weakness, of his astounding stupidity. He stared at his irritating face, his unkempt beard, his badly crafted helm, his craven eyes, and let the sight turn his anger into sheer bloodlust. He let the Shadows feed on his rage and reshape his mind and body, he let the solid darkness shroud his limbs and morph his flesh, granting him claws, fangs, strength, agility and unmitigated fury.

Now Wilson was scared, as he should be. Maxwell snickered at the pure horror etched on his features, and rejoiced. Wilson wasn't the only one with extra tricks hidden up his sleeve: Maxwell's powers weren't as limited as he had led the scientist to believe, although this was one he genuinely wasn't fond of using, considering the heavy toll it took on him afterwards. It didn't matter now though. Nothing mattered more than wiping that overconfident wimp off Maxwell's world. It wasn't just about winning this ridiculous squabble any more, oh no. It was about teaching him a lesson. It was about reminding him of the chasm between the two of them, even as he had almost started to treat Maxwell as an equal since his return to the Constant, as if the mere act of sitting on the throne was enough to turn a puny pawn into a real King. It was about showing him an ounce, just an ounce of the pain an actual Demon was capable of inflicting, how much more harrowing and unbearable it was compared to anything Wilson had experienced so far. It was about making damn sure that the last thing Wilson would ever know was that so far he had been lucky.

Maxwell lunged forward as Wilson aimed the ice staff at him and shot. Once, twice, wasting the precious little remaining charge of the weapon so carelessly, which was the real reason why Maxwell had been using it sparingly. He avoided both beams easily, letting the feral side awakened by the shadow magic steer his movements, bending almost on all fours and jumping to the side more swiftly than any hound could. Pointy icicles erupted from the ground where the freezing rays landed, but by that time Maxwell was already few meters past. Wilson grasped the futility of his attacks and started running, luring him to a specific spot of bushes. The hidden traps snapped, but their teeth broke ineffectively against the solid darkness shielding Maxwell's legs and feet, a very different sort of magic from what made up the smoky shadow puppets. In few more leaps, Wilson was within reach. The desperate scientist swung the tentacle spike at him, but Maxwell simply stopped it with his claw, harder than rock and immensely more deadly. He grabbed it firmly, the spikes bending against his palm, and snapped it in half with little effort. The glint of utter terror in Wilson's eyes filled the demon with sadistic glee, and he literally pounced on the scrawny man, sending him crashing into the mud, where he belonged.

Wilson flailed around madly, trying to punch him with his only free hand, and that feeble, unprotected arm was too tempting a morsel for Maxwell to resist. He sank his fangs into the skinny limb as it waved pointlessly in front of his face. It tasted like rain, soil and iron, and for once Maxwell wasn't even bothered by the thought of his suit getting stained by the warm blood flowing down his chin. Wilson screamed, and he screamed even louder, and oh so delightfully, when the demon clenched his teeth harder, tearing deeply into the flesh, harder still, until he felt the telltale crack of at least one bone snapping between his jaws. The pitiful human's howl spiked and then fizzled out into a choked whine, so shocked by the sudden pain that his eyes briefly rolled upwards, as if he was about to faint. A tad unwillingly, Maxwell let go of the mauled appendage and lifted up slightly from the broken man, idly wondering which body part he should bite or shred or mutilate next, but Wilson's other arm, the one still wielding the ice staff, unexpectedly moved. The tip of the staff jabbed Maxwell right on the chin, and shot point blank.

Its charge must have been almost completely exhausted, fortunately, because it did not turn his head into a whole chunk of ice. Nevertheless, it sent an intolerable wave of freezing cold through his flesh, burning his skin, radiating through his skull and his teeth, travelling up through every nerve to his very brain, leaving a trail of excruciating pain mixed with numbness in its path. Maxwell shouted, or he thought he did, his brain couldn't quite process anything for a couple of moments. He grasped his head, instinctively trying to bring some warmth to the offended area, but a surprisingly stern kick in the stomach sent him rolling on his back. Despite the dizziness and the raindrops in his eyes, he could vaguely make out the shape of his prey unsteadily crawling away from him, whimpering and cradling his injured arm. He would pay for this, oh he would. Maxwell shook his head as he got back on his hands and knees, trying to get rid of the confusion, and sneered in amusement as Wilson tried to shoot him again with the now unusable staff. Wilson threw the useless tool on the ground and, just as Maxwell lunged at him again, drew his own staff, his last remaining defense, and summoned another dwarf star between them, forcing the demon to interrupt his assault. Maxwell covered his eyes in time, but the light was still unbearably strong, and forced him to step back.

They circled each other, the snarling beast and the trembling human, Wilson's staff raised between them, ready to create another flaming ball of energy to deflect any upcoming attack. And so Wilson did, every time Maxwell tried to move forward: whenever Maxwell felt he was getting close enough to vibrate a blow, a new luminous sphere erupted from thin air, breaking his momentum. Soon the whole field was peppered with almost a dozen small suns, one for each foiled assault, and Maxwell slowly noticed that something wasn't right. He could barely keep his eyes open amidst that dazzling brilliance, while Wilson's eyes were still wide and firmly trained on him. The heat from the stars was becoming seriously unbearable, and Maxwell was starting to find it difficult to navigate between them. He should not be having such a hard time just finding an opening, he should not be having so much trouble just overpowering an already wounded target, he should not be struggling just thinking of a good strategy-

It finally clicked. The stars. Light and heat, light and heat everywhere, the very opposite of shadow. And they were no ordinary stars either, their unique perk was to strongly boost a bystander's sanity, and high sanity and shadow magic did not work together. The more stars Wilson summoned, the more compromised and crippled Maxwell's demon form was becoming, to the point of hindering him more than it was helping him. He hadn't considered that. He should have foreseen that possible development as soon as the Star Caller's staff had entered the picture. He should have considered that. Why had he not considered that-

He had to end it quickly, before the power of the Shadows abandoned him completely. Roaring in frustration, he dashed forward, barely dodging the newly formed star in his path and stretching his arm as far as possible. He hit home: his claw hit Wilson's helmet and sent it flying off, it opened a long slash along his temple, drawing warm, crimson blood. There was a high-pitched yell but, as Maxwell readied himself to strike anew, another ball of fire burst into existence right before his eyes, scorching the tip of his nose. He howled as well, stumbling backwards and covering his face with both hands, blinded with glare and pain. How was he still struggling so much, how hadn't he killed him yet, how was Wilson outsmarting him-

He opened his eyes again just in time to see Wilson, against any sensible judgement, charging headfirst towards him. It was too late to stop him, and the smaller man crashed his full weight into the demon's chest. What Maxwell noticed far too late, as the inertia of the impact hurled him backwards, was the other star quietly burning close, way too close, right behind him, the star he inevitably collided with.

It hurt. Briefly, but horrendously. The shadow armor he was still wearing dissolved instantly under the scorching heat and Maxwell wailed wildly as white-hot, searing pain enveloped and exploded on his back. He didn't know if he somehow phased through the minuscule celestial body or if he just slid off it, but he found himself panting and shaking on ground, his back throbbing and pulsing beyond belief and his sizzling jacket being put out by the thick raindrops. His hands were white and soft again, his fangs had retracted into perfectly human teeth, and he was more dazed and ravaged than he could remember feeling since-

He panicked. The shadow magic had been extinguished, his armor was gone, he had no weapons. He was at a clear disadvantage. He needed at least a weapon, desperately. He frantically looked around. He saw the shattered remains of Wilson's tentacle spike. Broken, useless. The ice staff. Powerless, nothing more than a stick now. There! His dark sword! Barely used, intact. He scrambled to his feet, slipped on the mud and fell to the ground after few steps, pushed himself up again and rushed towards the precious item, his heart hammering in his chest, his back killing him with every movement, so much that he barely registered the few faint pricks nipping at his shoulders. He fell on his knee, grasped the slippery hilt and turned to face his opponent, who hadn't moved from where he had fallen too. He was standing still, apparently not making any effort to catch up with Maxwell, covering his mouth with his good hand, his ancient staff abandoned on the ground. Maxwell didn't even bother to try to figure what the hell could be going on in his head.

"...You..." He rumbled, gritting his teeth, more out of sorts than ever. He stood up- tried to stand up-

-he fell on his knees.

He tried to stand again. His legs were not responding. He wasn't moving. He gulped, suddenly feeling acutely aware of his own breathing and heartbeat. What the hell was going on? He just couldn't move, what was it? He wasn't so badly hurt to justify anything like that. The aftereffects of the transformation? No, it was too soon, and the stars were enough to keep his sanity high enough for the time being. What was-

He blinked. Once, and again. His vision cleared a bit, and he could finally make out what Wilson was holding to his mouth, a few meters away. Slowly, with all the strength Maxwell could muster, he managed to lift his arm and jerkily pat the back of his shoulders, pulling the tiny things off his body. He let them roll on the palm of his hand, and brought them before his eyes.

"...You little coward..."

Poison darts. Just how many different weapons did that bastard have on his person, uh? All for a bunch of simple hounds. Or did he always bring all that stuff around? Was he already expecting Maxwell to turn on him, one of those days? Cowardice, plain and simple. No doubt he would call it preparedness, with no little pride.

Another ounce of the former King's strength abandoned him, and his arms went both limp against his sides, darts and sword falling to the ground. All he could do was barely managing to keep his balance and remain standing on his knees. He glowered futilely at Wilson as he finally approached him with small, weary steps, until he stood right in front of him, staring down on him. He was caked with mud and blood, soaked to the bone, pale as a sheet, shaking slightly, weakly holding his mauled arm. He made a very sorry sight as a victor.

"...You aren't even human any more, are you?" His voice was just as disappointing as his looks. Scared, unsteady, faint. Maxwell could barely hear it above the rumbling noise of the pouring rain and the fuzzy sensation that was pervading his own head. His own pulse thumped inside his skull, and his own breaths sounded like they were produced by a pair of bellows.

"I thought- I thought there was more to you than what I saw while you were on the throne. I thought you could be a victim of this wretched world, in a way, like me. I thought that there may still be a shred of human decency and compassion in you, that it may show up eventually. But I was wrong." He suddenly grabbed the collar of Maxwell's shirt and pulled it up with delirious energy, bringing their faces closer. His eyes were flaming, his voice broke into an unfittingly hysterical pitch. "There's nothing! There isn't a single thing worth saving in you! NOT! ONE!"

Maxwell closed his eyes, wishing he could just faint on command. If there was one, truly unfair aspect to this whole situation, it was that he didn't even have the necessary clarity and muscle coordination to speak. It was beyond cruel that he was forced to spend his last living moments listening to this miserable man's pathetic ramblings. Wilson let go of him and Maxwell fell backwards, landing in the mud. At least it couldn't get any more humiliating that that. He couldn't bring himself to care any more. As moments passed and the fallen king gradually inched closer to blissful oblivion, Wilson just stared at him. Was he just going to watch as Maxwell slowly died? Was he going to just savour the sight of his skin going paler and paler, colder and colder, was he going to count his breaths as they grew more shallow and erratic, was he going to visualize the poison as it was distributed throughtout his body until his heart finally stopped? That sounded like a worthy use of his time, actually. Maxwell may have done it himself, had their roles been reversed.

But no, no, of course Wilson wasn't that classy. Eventually he knelt down beside Maxwell and took his dark sword, pointing it at his neck. How unnecessarily dramatic.

"You don't deserve a second chance. Or pity. Or mercy." He spoke haltingly, lowly, as if he could barely summon the strength, the lucidity. He looked like he was on the verge of tears, and his arm and the blade grazing Maxwell's throat shook violently. "You don't deserve anything."

Ultimately, Maxwell didn't even get the satisfaction to see him do it. He hesitated, and hesitated, and hesitated, so long that Maxwell's consciousness faded before the hit.

* * *

Surprisingly, Maxwell woke up again. It took him a while to notice, his muddled mind slipping seamlessly from uncosciousness to numb, unaware wakefulness. He gradually became aware of the complete darkness of the star-less night sky of the Constant, of pouring rain still drenching him, of the mud sticking to his clothes, of the chill seeping into his bones, of the neauseating, lingering taste of human flesh on his tongue. Also, of the pain. Every muscle and limb and square inch of his very skin ached as if they had been torn off, minced, remolded and put back. Shadow possession didn't go easy on mortal flesh. He dimly realized he hadn't yet frozen to death or been swallowed by the darkness only thanks to the small field of stars still crackling nearby, their warmth and light reaching and barely protecting him. With immense effort and biting back swears because of the multitude of pangs, he eventually managed to sit up and survey the area.

There were no signs of the previous battle, other than the man-made miniature galaxy. All the carcasses and weapons and traps that had littered the field, both the broken and functional ones, were gone. Maxwell patted his own jacket, looking for the Codex. He didn't find it. He didn't find anything at all in any of his pockets. He reached up and felt around his own neck. There was only a tiny, inconsequential nick on his skin, right above his jugular.

Pathetic.

No poison darts in Wilson's varied arsenal, apparently, just innocuous sleep-inducing ones. Maxwell guessed poison must have seemed too ungentlemanly a trick for the scientist's taste. He hadn't even mustered the will to finish him off with a swift slash, he hadn't even found the strength to eliminate a vicious opponent that wished for nothing better than tearing him apart limb by limb, and had almost done so. Instead of that, his upstanding sense of morality had chosen to rob and leave Maxwell alone, unconscious, unarmed and defenseless out in the open, at the mercy of the first hungry spider or slimy frog that may have passed by, as if that was a more merciful alternative to a quick and clean death.

Pathetic, gutless and hypocritical.

And, as much as Maxwell was trying to suffocate the intrusive thought, he couldn't ignore the fact that this was the man that had bested him. Twice, now. One time in an indirect test of endurance and stubbornness, another in frontal, all-out fight and strategy. This was the man that had literally driven him to his knees, and then hadn't even deemed him enough of threat to kill him. This was the underestimated, underpromoted pawn that had stripped the King of all of his pieces, and then checkmated him. Reverend Saavedra would have loved it.

Just pathetic.

Maxwell didn't move. He had no food, no torch, nothing. He couldn't trudge back to his camp before dawn, so he just waited, letting the rivulets of rain trickling down his hair wash away the rest of his thoughts.


End file.
